


Pathos and Logos

by Musings_of_a_Monster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Betrayal, Brief discription of severe injury, Gen, Loss, Original Character-centric, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempted murder need not be personal, and sometimes it isn't.<br/>Doesn't make it an easy thing to brush off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pathos and Logos

**Author's Note:**

> Pathos: a mode of persuasion appealing to the emotions  
> Logos: a mode of persuasion appealing to logic

            “I realize this situation is not ideal—”

            _Who in the fuck gave this asshat a PhD?_

            “—but it really could have been far worse.”

            Trinity allowed the left side of her mouth to curl up, revealing teeth in a mockery of a smile. “No chance I could improve, is there?”

            “Well, not with medical science as it is. But new technology is always being looked into. And unexplainable recoveries do occur very, very occasionally.”

            The last wisps of hope Phung hadn’t even realized she’d had were torn away when the doctor suggested the technical possibility of a miracle. “If that’s all you have to say, I guess we’re done here. Thank you, doctor, and have a nice day.”

            The doctor opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, nodded, and (finally, _finally_ ) left the room.

 

            It didn’t take long for Phung to learn that Rumlow was in the burn unit, but it did take her longer than the other STRIKE patients in the hospital. Two stood ahead of her in the hallway, across from about a hundred police officers. One at a time, they said. No touching or spitting, they said. All STRIKE agents are to be assumed innocent until proven guilty, they said, with all the force of a dyslexic ESL student dry reading Shakespeare.

            The first agent wheeled out in the same hospital brand wheelchair Phung was stuck in. It looked like one leg had been cut open, and one foot was missing two and a half toes.

            Hell, if that was all, Phung envied him. Another agent went in wearing a hoodie, he was speaking mostly not-English (Spanish? Portuguese?) but his voice sounded familiar to Phung. Another voice—definitely Rumlow’s, strained though it was—interrupted him, “I don’t care! Go to Cuba! Or Ireland! Or the goddamn moon! Just get the fuck out of _here_.”

            “But boss—!” Phung’s eyes about popped out of her skull. No way. Of _all_ the STRIKE agents, there was no _way_.

            A man in the hoodie with brown skin and either very dark brown or black hair came out, sniffling.

            “Murphy?” Phung said. The man started to turn, but caught himself and sped up. “You son of a bitch, Murphy! _Get back here_!” Phung might have gone after him, but the one hundred and one police officers didn’t look like they were going to let that happen.

            The last agent went in, but Phung didn’t catch much of the conversation. She needed to think about what she was going to say. Nothing—not a damn thing—came to her. The last agent walked out, and Phung wheeled in.

            The first thing she noticed was the smell. Soaking through the antiseptic scent typical of hospitals was one that reminded Phung of pork. It was not the least bit pleasant, and she clenched her teeth to keep from gagging. When she reached the side of Rumlow’s hospital bed, she just took in the sight of what had once been her commanding officer.

            He rolled his eyes towards her rather than move his head, “Phung.”

            Phung shook her head, “No. I don’t ever want to hear my name in your voice again. You will call me agent.”

            “Agent,” he was likely attempting to sound sarcastic, but his voice was just shy of monotone. Drugs, Phung guessed.

            “I don’t even know what to ask you, just—” something resembling a laugh came from deep in Phung’s chest, “HYDRA. The whole fucking time. I thought we were a team, but you, apparently _Murphy_ for fuck’s sake—who else?”

            “Rollins, Mercer—”

            “Yeah, Mercer was one of the ones who threw me down the goddamn stairwell. You know, because being literally stabbed in the back just doesn’t do it for them. Protip: have your squids do more stabbing in the front. Easier to hit the vital organs.”

            “Okay, one,” Rumlow said, “the orders from on high were to _kill anyone who gets in the way_. No more specific than that. Two, throwing you down the stairwell without making sure the job’s done is _sloppy_. And, frankly, I’m _insulted_ that you thought I’d give shitty orders like that. Three, it clearly didn’t work, so good for you. Get on with your life.”

            “Oh, sure!” Phung snapped, “If the attempted murder doesn’t _take_ , that makes it okay!”

            “You’re taking this very personally.”

            Phung cocked her head and just stared at Rumlow for a second. “Wow. Those meds must really be fucking with your brain. Let me break it down for you. _People I thought were my friends tried to kill me_.”

            Rumlow rolled his eyes again, this time very clearly in derision, “Along with two hundred million _other_ people. What makes _you_ so goddamn special? This is on you, too. You weren’t attacked at random, Phung, and I know you’re smart enough to know—”

            Phung snarled, “I told you—”

            “Don’t you interrupt me, goddammit. _You_ got in the way. You _chose_ to get in the way. You _could_ have stepped aside. Get your head out of your ass and _accept_ the consequences of _your_ actions like a big girl.”

            In silence, Phung looked first at Rumlow, then the surrounding equipment, and then again at Rumlow. “Are you ready to accept the consequences of yours?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and as she wheeled away Phung said, “Get a staph infection up your roasted ass and go to Hell.”

**Author's Note:**

> Isaac Murphy belongs to Lauralot. Mercer belongs to Stoatsandwich. Trinity Phung belongs to me. Pretty much everything else belongs to Marvel/Disney.


End file.
